


burn the evidence

by darkavenger



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t owe you that,” he tells his son, and offers him a hand to stand.</p>
<p>Daken takes it, which surprises him, then uses it to yank him down, which shouldn’t. “Don’t tell me what is due me,” Daken says, breath hitting Logan’s face from the mere inches that separate them. His eyes are like dark, cold holes. They’re the only cold spot in the whole world.</p>
<p>“This ain’t what you’re looking for, kid,” Logan says, as gently as he can, one last attempt at kindness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn the evidence

It’s a bar. Madripoor. Not his bar, just some seedy waterfront bar that’s loud and crowded enough to drown out his misery. The music so loud its sensation not sound, bodies thrashing and spasming on the dancefloor in ecstasy or agony. It’s not his kind of place, aimed at a clientiele a century younger than him. A girl that looked younger than Jubilee had approached him earlier in the evening and he’d turned her down as kindly as he could, and had to resist the urge to tell the kid to go back home. He can’t see her in the throng of twisting, heaving, sweating bodies on the dancefloor, so that’s some consolation. At least now its later there’s not many people at the bar, leaving him to drink himself into a stupor in peace.

A drink appears in his field of vision, sliding across the polished surface of the bar and coming to a halt in front of him. He squints, has no memory of ordering another, but hell, he’s not complaining. He necks it, which proves to be a mistake. Even the burn of forty proof alcohol can’t mask the chemical taste that laces it. “Who bought that drink?” he demands roughly, leaning over the bar. The ravenous noise swallows his words. Whatever was in that drink, it was strong. Normal drugs or poisons wouldn’t affect him, but this is already setting his head spinning. He leans heavily across the bar and repeats himself more urgently. The bartender clearly can’t hear him, but must be used to deciphering drunk patrons over the constant roar. He shrugs, and points.

Logan turns, hand grasping at the barstool to keep himself steady. His breath catches in his throat. “Daken?”

Across the dancefloor, Daken smiles, teeth a white glint in the gloom, before turning and walking out of the bar without a backward glance.

Staggering to his feet, Logan follows. It feels like he’s wading through water. Whatever his son just drugged him with, it has one hell of a kick. The vibrations of the music makes his bones feel like tuning forks that have just been struck. Dazed, he falls into the crowd, but doesn’t hit the ground. Hands are on him, all on him, Bodies pressing up against him. Faces appear before his own, laughing, the mouths distorted laughing. They look like liquid, plastic bodies melting in the shimmering heat of a Madripoor summer night. Reeling, he stumbles through the crowd, towards the doors leading to the pier.Time stretches out, elastic as chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. Eventually he reaches outside. It’s not cool, even out here, but the sudden quiet as the doors swing shut makes it feel like it is. Daken’s waiting, back to him and hands in the pockets of his dress pants. He’s looking up at the night sky. Logan looks up too, and gets lost. The stars seem to spin, to swirl endlessly. In the face of them, his anger gets diluted.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Daken’s voice echoes oddly in Logan’s head. He turns to Logan and smiles again, eyes crinkling at the corners. The moonlight caught in his eyes.

“Son,” Logan says. He shakes his head, then regrets it. “What kind of game d’you think you’re playing?” he asks. He thinks. Why’d you always got to do this? Gotta always makes things difficult and messed up and seven kinds of uncomfortable? What kind of kid roofies his own father, for Christ’s sake?

Daken gives a short, strained laugh, and belatedly, Logan realises he’s said it all out loud. “What kind of father are you?”

“Son -” Logan bites back the word, swallows it down, “Daken.” As if that’s any better. Mongrel. What kind of name is that for a person? What kind of name to call a child? Perhaps it is fitting, considering who his father is. Both of them animals. He wonders if he said that aloud too.

“You should stop talking,” Daken says, taking a step towards him. His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to the words and a threat in his movement. “I didn’t bring you here to talk.”

Logan feels himself react to the danger; his claws prickle, just below the surface of his skin, pain like insects burrowing up to the surface. “What did you get me here for, huh?”

Daken smiles and Logan doesn’t like it. “I thought we could spend some quality time together,” he says, then leans forward and in so quickly Logan doesn’t have time to stop the press of lips against his.

It takes his drug-addled mind a moment to react, and for that moment he’s frozen, locked in some fucking circle of hell where instead of flames there’s only the burning of the drug in his system and the pleasant warmth of Daken’s body pressed against his, the wet, warm heat of his mouth, of his tongue hot and slick in Logan’s mouth, and he’s going to hell, they’re both going to hell.

He pushes Daken away violently. Too hard. Daken staggers, falls down on the wooden boardwalk. “Don’t you dare,” he says, shuddering as he wipes a trembling hand over his mouth, like he can just wipe away the taste of Daken when his son’s saliva is in his mouth, his scent hanging heavy in the air, intoxicating with every breath. He looks down at Daken, revulsion and pity mixing in a queasy combination in his stomach. Daken’s not stood, is just sitting, examining his palms as if fascinated by the faint scrapes that are vanishing before his very eyes. “I don’t owe you that,” he tells his son, and offers him a hand to stand.

Daken takes it, which surprises him, then uses it to yank him down, which shouldn’t. “Don’t tell me what is due me,” Daken says, breath hitting Logan’s face from the mere inches that separate them. His eyes are like dark, cold holes. They’re the only cold spot in the whole world.

“This ain’t what you’re looking for, kid,” Logan says, as gently as he can, one last attempt at kindness.

Daken grins, cold eyes glittering, stars caught in his eyes. “Oh, but it’s what I want,” he breathes, stretching up hungrily to kiss Logan again.

Logan jerks back, and pins Daken down by the neck. “I said no.”

“What are you going to do?” Daken asks, perfect enunciation slightly strained from the weak pressure Logan’s exerting. “Spank me, daddy?” He grins, sardonically.

Disgusted, Logan lets go and gets off him. “Goodbye, kid.”

“Wait,” Daken calls out, after him. Logan wonders what that is costing him. “Don’t go.”

Don’t listen, Logan tells himself grimly. Don’t turn back. Just keep walking.

“Don’t leave me.” A disembodied voice in the dark.

Logan closes his eyes and breathes heavily. He turns back, and stomps over to where Daken is still sprawled on the floor.

“You came back for me,” Daken observes lazily. His eyelids fall shut, closing Logan out. “I suppose better late than never, hm?”

Logan drags a hand over his face wearily. “You’re a mess, kid.”

Daken doesn’t reply, but Logan can hear the soft sound of his breathing, see the too-fast rise and fall of his chest.  

“Don’t you go passing out on me,” Logan says, dismayed, but Daken doesn’t respond. Logan puts out a hand to shake him, try and rouse him, but Daken lies unresponsive. His skin feels hot and sweat-sticky beneath Logan’s hand, like he’s running a fever. Logan can feel his own vest sticking to his back, the sweat trickling down his spine. He goes to pull his hand away, but then pauses, and hesitantly reaches down to brush Daken’s hair back off his face. It’s a clumsy gesture, some big oaf like him trying to play father to a messed-up kid like Daken. Well, not a kid. And there lies half the problem.What kind of relationship are they supposed to have?

Not the kind Daken seems set on having, Logan promises himself grimly, and he pulls his hand away. Still, he can’t stop looking at Daken, drinking in the sight. Its only while Daken’s unconscious that he ever gets to see his son without seeing the hatred in his eyes looking back. He looks smaller like this, almost fragile even though Logan knows that’s a lie, that Daken is just like him, something that can live through anything. Another a problem. There are things people aren’t meant to live through.

Logan doesn’t know the details of what Daken’s lived through, but he’d wager whatever it was, it was bad. He touches his lips absently.That’s not love. He thinks about the drink. About the kiss. About love. That’s not love. Daken’s body pressed against him, fingers slipping up his vest, dragging nails up his chest, that’s not love. Daken drugging him. Daken’s lips on his. That’s not love boy, who told you that was love.

Daken stirs, eyes cracking open into thin slits. He looks at Logan, but its like he’s not seeing him. He murmurs something in Japanese, too low to catch.

“What’s that?” Logan asks, but Daken doesn’t repeat himself. Just stares blankly. Logan wonders how much more of the drug he took for himself. He sighs. Can’t leave him here, not like this, not alone. Warily, he reaches out for Daken, not sure if Daken will recognise it’s him reaching for him in the dark, and not sure if Daken will tolerate his touch anyway. But Daken is unresistant for once, allowing Logan to scoop him up into an awkward carry. He’s too big to carry like this. Not a child, Logan thinks with a pang in his chest. This’d be so much easier if he was.

“Time to get you home,” Logan says. “Or ‘least, back to the hotel. I’ll even let you take the bed.”

Daken doesn’t respond, head lolling against Logan’s chest. Logan would have thought he’d passed out again, except when he looks down he can see the moonlight glint off Daken’s eyes. Like the vacancy sign in a hotel, Logan thinks, and then shakes his head. Damn drugs. But it’s eerie, the docile weight of Daken in his arms. Daken murmurs something, in English this time, but still almost too low to catch.

“You look just like him.”

Daken falls silent again, turning his face back into Logan’s chest. Logan doesn’t ask who Daken was referring to.  

 

By the time they get back to the hotel, Daken is able to stand. Once he’s on his feet, he takes a deliberate step away from Logan. Glancing sideways as he unlocks the door to his room, Logan takes in the cold, flat expression on Daken’s face. Obviously he’s back in control. Logan wishes he could feel happier about that than he does.

“Well, here we are,” he says, clearing his throat as he pushes open the door and flicks the light switch. Daken moves past him without a word, a faint sneer twisting his lips as he takes in the shabby decor of the room. “Y’don’t have to stay,” Logan begins to say, but Daken’s already moved over to the bed. He sits on the edge and tugs his shoes off, dark hair tumbling over his face as he reaches down. Logan watches for a second, then moves to the bathroom, more to give Daken privacy if he’s going to change than anything else. He takes a piss while he’s waiting, and brushes his teeth, hard enough that the bristles bend and flatten. He spits, grimacing when he spots the blood mixed in with the toothpaste. He can smell himself; stale sweat, with the same kind of stink to it that comes after a drinking binge. He still doesn’t feel clean, but there’s nothing to be done about that and he doesn’t feel like getting naked for a shower with Daken in the next room.

Logan hesitates for a moment before leaving the bathroom, not sure what to expect. Daken might be gone, Daken might be naked, laid out on the bed and ready to continue his sick seduction. Neither option would surprise Logan at this point. As it turns out, Daken picked neither of those two options Logan had envisioned. He’s in the bed, but under the cover, sheet drawn up to just under his chin. His black hair spreads across the pillow as he turns to look at Logan. “Shower’s free, if you want it,” Logan offers.

Daken’s expression remains impassive and he doesn’t respond. Logan shrugs, then turns off the light and makes his way in the darkness over to the armchair. It won’t be the best night’s sleep he’s ever had, but it won’t be the worst either. He tries to fall asleep, but he can feel Daken’s gaze on him, a prickling, uncomfortable awareness that keeps him on edge. He keeps his eyes closed, though he knows Daken can tell from his heartrate he’s not sleeping.

Daken breaks the silence, “That doesn’t look comfortable. You could share the bed, you know.”

Logan grunts, shifting in the chair, “Since when have you cared so much about my comfort. I’m fine.”

“Why not?” Daken persists, adding poisonously, “Scared I’ll gut you in your sleep?”

“No,” Logan says shortly. If only that was all he had to fear.

They fall into silence. Logan closes his eyes again, tries to sleep.

“You should have fucked me.” Daken’s voice is low, tone unreadable.

Logan’s breath catches. For a moment he feels frozen, suddenly cold through the heavy heat of the night. Then he recovers, forces his breathing into an easy, regular rhythm. “And why’d I want to do a thing like that for?”

Daken doesn’t reply. Silence falls again, and this time neither of them break it. Logan drifts into an uneasy sleep. 


End file.
